


Love After Love

by scheherazade



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-13
Updated: 2010-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a bit like missing a step, but more like standing up too fast or hitting a rough patch of ice and falling out of a spin, head reeling and vision almost going black. A blur and a jump and a moment later, I return to my senses to discover that I have, once again, been displaced in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love After Love

The time will come  
when, with elation,  
you will greet yourself arriving  
at your own door, in your own mirror,  
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

And say, sit here. Eat.  
You will love again the stranger who was yourself.  
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart  
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored  
for another, who knows you by heart.  
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,  
peel your own image from the mirror.  
Sit. Feast on your life.

_Derek Walcott_

-

 

It's a bit like missing a step, but more like standing up too fast or hitting a rough patch of ice and falling out of a spin, head reeling and vision almost going black. A blur and a jump and a moment later, I return to my senses to discover that I have, once again, been displaced in time.

I don't know why it happens; I don't know why God would do this to man. There is no answer, no medical or scientific or even logical explanation for why I time travel. It's not something I can control. One minute I'll be warming up for a skate in Philadelphia or waiting for the water to boil, and the next thing I know it's 1967, I'm in the backyard of my childhood home in Ohio and hoping to God that none of the neighbors happen to glance out their windows just then to see the stark-naked man throwing up over Dorothy Hamilton's prize geraniums. Then just as suddenly I am gone, transported back to the current day, landing on my ass next to my clothes crumpled in a pile on the kitchen floor, the clock on the stove ticking green and merciless and the kettle whistling like a five o'clock train.

I come and go without warning, without rhyme or reason or sense. I used to look for a pattern, when I was younger, but it doesn't exist. There are only things that help, and things that exacerbate the problem, like sleep deprivation and loneliness and long humid days. I travel often when it rains. I prefer clear mornings and quiet evenings with a book and my favorite cup of tea. I need to be focused, calm, sure of myself. Skating helps. Skating is the one thing that truly helps. So I skate and skate and skate, because on the ice, I am free and I am in control.

It is when I am away from the rink that I get into trouble. I travel, and where I end up is like a cosmic game of Russian roulette. I find myself in church yards, on street corners, in deserted parking lots behind schools and strip malls and hospitals. Sometimes, I meet people; always, I run. How could I explain? What proof could I give? I have never been able to take anything with me. When I time travel, I am a nameless man in a hostile land, no home, no clothes, no identification, no friends. I have only myself—present, past, and all the times in between.

I often meet myself when I time travel. I see my five-year-old self, suffering from an illness that the doctor cannot diagnose, cannot cure. I see myself at twelve, at twenty-two, at thirty-five. I relive the joy of learning to skate for the first time. I share the sorrow of that seventeen-year-old who just lost his mother to cancer. I encourage him, pull myself up by my laces and say, _Go on_. Go on, and find a way to be happy even when you have every reason to be miserable.

I am forty-five this year. I have seen my future. I have seen myself at sixty, sixty-eight, and I know that life is not easy. But life doesn't have to be easy to be good; I don't have to know everything to be happy. I just need to find a reason, and I will. Because I will be happy.

 

-

 

_Tuesday, September 4, 1962_

 

The first time it happens, I am four years old. It's evening. We went to the doctor's earlier, and now we're going home. Dad is driving and mom is next to him. I'm squished in the back between Susan and Stevie. Another day, another visit. I kick my feet against the seat. My feet are too short to reach the floor. I haven't grown since last year, mom says. The doctor asked me a lot of questions about how I feel and what I like to eat. I told him I like the strawberry milkshake mom made yesterday. Talking about food made me hungry.

It's dinnertime when we get home. But mom doesn't go to the kitchen. She pulls me aside, in the living room. "Scottie," she says, "Scottie, the doctor said you need a special diet. It won't be nice, but it's good for you. It's to make you better, you understand that, Scottie?"

I nod, but I don't know what a diet is. Mom looks sad. She tells me to go wash up while she makes dinner. I run upstairs to Susan's room. Susan is ten years old and knows everything. I tell her what mom just said. "What's a diet?" I ask. Susan says diets are for girls to look prettier. I don't get it. I'm not a girl. But the doctor says I need a diet. Mom said it won't be nice. Maybe the diet will turn me into a girl. I start to cry. Susan shouts at me.

I run into my room and shut the door. Stevie is downstairs with mom, so I am alone. I hear footsteps on the stairs. I hear dad's voice. "Susan, what's going on?" I crawl under the covers of my bed and lay there, my face smooshed into the pillow and the blanket covering my head. A knock on the door. "Scottie?" The door opens. "Scottie, what's this about?"

I scream into my pillow. I want him to go away. The pillowcase is getting wet because I can't stop crying. Dad says, "Dinner's almost ready. I'm going to come back in a few minutes, and you're not going to be crying anymore, okay? You're not a baby." He leaves. I hear the door close. I scream again, and start to hiccup. Everything is dark under the blanket. My throat hurts. My head hurts.

I roll over—my stomach flipflops, like I've rolled off the edge of my bed—and then everything changes.

 

_Saturday, March 15, 1981, 5:49 a.m. / Friday, September 8, 1962, 4:05 p.m. (Scott is 22, and 4)_

 

I hardly slept last night, but I feel great. I feel more than great; I feel wonderful. Powerful. On top of the world. It is early spring in Hartford, and yesterday I won gold at the 1981 World Figure Skating Championships. It is nearly dawn, and there is a glorious view of the sunrise from my hotel room window. It is an apt metaphor, I think, smiling to myself as I go to the window and draw back the curtains.

The blue-grey of false dawn floods into the room, disorienting, and the next thing I know, I'm lying flat on my back, blinking up into the glare of white fluorescent lights. The tile floor is cold against my naked skin. Everything smells of plastic and antiseptics. Every ounce of elation drains out of me.

 _Not 1977_ , I pray. _Please, any day but that._

I hear a soft _thump_ , and a gasp. I open my eyes and sit up, heart pounding, wondering if I had landed in an occupied room this time, wondering if—

A small child is sitting on the bed, eyes wide and mouth open in a perfect 'o'. The room is empty but for the two of us. He is every bit as naked as I am. Something clicks in my head.

"Scott?" I try. He says nothing, just stares at me with wide eyes and an expression like a deer caught in the headlights. I wasn't the brightest child, but I knew enough to be afraid of strangers. Like me. I put on a smile and try again, "It's okay, Scottie, don't be scared. I'm your friend."

"I don't know you," he says then, and his voice is high and breathless. His face looks as if he's been crying.

"You don't know me yet, but you will," I say. "We're going to be best friends. Are you cold?" I look around the room. There are a few towels on a rack built into a corner. I take one and wrap it around my waist. The other, I bring to Scott. He flinches away from me. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you. This is to keep you warm. Here."

I hold the towel out, at arm's length. He watches me for several long seconds, before finally taking the proferred covering and wrapping it around his shoulders.

"Where am I?" is his next question. "Who are you?"

I look at the clock on the wall. It's a little past four in the afternoon. This must be the first time I time traveled, back when I was four years old. I had a doctor's appointment that day, I remember, and after we got back home— Yes, I remember. I had been upset about what the doctor said. That must have triggered the jump. So this is probably the pediatrics ward where I spent so much of my childhood being prodded and tested and diagnosed with one disease after another, all to no avail.

"You're at the hospital," I say. "It's four in the afternoon, a few hours before when you're from. And I'm your friend, like I said. I'm from the future, too, just like you. And my name is Scott, also just like you. We have a lot in common, see? We're going to be best friends and have lots of adventures together."

He frowns. "I don't get it."

"You will eventually." I don't have time to explain. I remember that I only spoke to the strange man for a minute or so; then I blinked, and I was back in my room, quite naked when dad came upstairs to get me for dinner. And no one was ever able explain why I had shucked all my clothes. When I told mom that I had gone back to the hospital, she just gave me a concerned look, felt my forehead for a fever, and sent me to bed early. I didn't even complain; didn't throw a tantrum, didn't cry. I had forgotten all about the diet and turning into a girl, my thoughts completely occupied by what the strange man had said.

"I'll see you again in other times," I tell him now, trying to remember what I had heard myself say. "We're going to meet quite often. Usually I'll come to you, but sometimes we'll both travel somewhere at the same time, like now. Don't be scared, okay? It's going to be fine. You're going to be fine." I pause for a moment. "You'll be more than fine, actually. You're going to be great."

He's staring at me again, but this time with more curiosity than fear. I smile, glad that I was making some kind of progress. Then his expression freezes, suddenly, and the next moment he is gone.

I sigh and pick up the towel, carefully folding it and putting it back on the rack. So concluded my first time traveling adventure. I think back, and remember. In two days time, an older version of me would stumble into the backyard, behind the big willow tree, stunning my four-year-old self who had been hiding there. The strange man would ask me for clothes, and I would steal them from the pile of old shirts and ugly pants that mom liked to donate to charity. Then everything truly began, as this older Scott explained to my younger self what time traveling was like. What he should expect. What he should do. How to run and hide and survive on my own.

How strange and wonderful it had all seemed back then, these meetings and adventures with Scott the time traveler. Goodness knows I had little else, being a sickly toddler with an over-active imagination and too little to do, since mom refused to let me play like the other kids, terrified for my health. Because she loved me. I know that now. But to a four-year-old, it was torture—of a kind that only the appearance of Scott could relieve.

 

-

 

_Wednesday, February 18, 1967 (Scott is 8, and 28)_

 

I sit under the willow tree and wait. Today is Wednesday. It's been two weeks since Scott last showed up. He has to be coming soon. I come out to the willow tree every day after school and wait for him. Sometimes I can't stay long so I leave him notes and snacks I stole from the kitchen, in case he gets hungry. I never eat any of it. I'm not allowed to, because of the diet. I have to have this feeding tube. It goes in my nose and it's weird and uncomfortable. But Scott doesn't make fun of me like other kids do. Scott is my friend.

Today I have something new to show him. I hold the skates close to my chest and wait. I went skating with Susan last week. I'm going to take lessons now. Scott once told me he likes to skate. Maybe we can go skating together.

I hear something on the other side of the tree. "Scott?" I call out.

"Hang on, I'm getting dressed." I hear him rummaging in the plastic bag of clothes. "Give me a sec."

"Okay." I sit tight. I wait until he walks around the tree and sits down next to me. He's wearing a pair of baggy slacks and dad's old jacket, but no shoes. I still haven't found him a pair that fits. I'm looking, though. I study him for a moment. He looks old, but not too old. That's good. I like this Scott best. He's usually cheerful and always listens to me. I beam at him. "I have something to show you, Scott."

He smiles back. "What is it?"

"Look!" I hold out the skates. They're a used pair, but they're shiny and black and very nice. Susan picked them out for me at the shop. "I'm going to take ice skating lessons!"

Scott looks impressed. "That's awesome, Scottie!"

"Now we can go skating together! Not here, 'course. But maybe when we both time travel together somewhere. We can find a rink or a frozen pond and go skating. You can teach me stuff."

"That would be nice," Scott says. He doesn't sound very enthusiastic. I frown at him. He notices and shakes his head. "It's not that I don't want to, Scottie. It's just... It's going to be very hard to find skates. And clothes. We can't take anything with us, remember?"

"Oh." I hadn't thought of that. I frown again. "I guess in the future, then..."

He ruffles my hair. He likes doing that. I swat his hands away and look down at my feet. He sighs. "You'll get to skate with me one day, Scottie. Just not the way you're imagining it, I think. But you're going to skate for many, many years, and you're going to be really good at it."

"You promise?"

"I promise. You'll see. Now tell me about your day. How was school?"

"It sucked." Bobbie and Mary Jane made fun of me and Sam stole my pencil during math. I cried and Ms. Bean scolded them. Mary Jane called me the teacher's pet, and made all the girls be mean to me at recess. They called me an alien. They said I needed the feeding tube because I'm a weird alien. I don't like school. I don't tell mom about it anymore because she talks to Ms. Bean and then Ms. Bean makes the other kids be nice to me, and it doesn't work.

I tell Scott, though. Scott listens and tells me how to get back at them. He tells me to ignore them, because that's how you beat bullies. Bullies want attention. If you ignore them, then they don't have power. It's like taking the battery out of a toy. Scott knows everything. Scott tells me that I'm going to be better than all of them; I'm going to be better than Bobbie and Sam and Tony and even Mary Jane. I like that.

I want to be like Scott when I grow up. I tell him that. Scott smiles at me and says that he's flattered, and that he's honored to be my friend. I don't know what flattered means, but it sounds like a good thing.

He leaves suddenly. One minutes he's nodding and smiling while I tell him about skating with Susan, then a second later there's just some clothes on the ground. I gather it up and put it back in the bag for next time. I hope he comes back soon. I can hear mom calling me back inside for dinner. I take my skates and walk back to the house.

 

-

 

_Sunday, October 29, 1970 (Scott is 35, and 12)_

 

I wake up suddenly and with my face pressed against something hard and scratchy. I open my eyes, telling myself to breathe and remain calm as I try to figure out where I am. The last thing I remember is stumbling into bed after a long flight home.

Something stirs in the corner of my vision. Willow branches. Which means my makeshift pillow must be a tree root. Which means I time traveled again. I wonder if it happened in the middle of the night while I was asleep, or just when I was about to wake up. I hope it's the latter, but the gnawing aches all over my body tells me that it's more likely the former. So much for a good night's sleep.

I walk around the willow tree until I find the bag of clothes. I put on an old yellow t-shirt and a pair of slacks that are about four sizes too large for me. They must've been my dad's. I take a peek through the willow branches; the sun is low in the sky, the light clear and bright. It feels like early morning. There's nothing to do now but wait.

The day is warm, but not too warm. I doze off with my back against the tree trunk, waking up only at the sound of footsteps crunching over the ground. I scramble to my feet just as someone parts the branches and calls out, softly, "Scott?"

It's me—a younger me, maybe twelve or thirteen, all elbows and knees and much, much too short for an almost-teen. The only thing that seems to be growing normally is my hair, which is cropped in a truly terrible haircut. I suspect mom did this herself.

I smile. "Hey, Scottie."

"Hey yourself," he says. He walks over and plops down on the ground next to me. I sit next to him. He eyes me for a moment. "When are you from?"

"1992. What's today's date?"

"Sunday, October 29, 1970."

I do some quick mental math. "You're twelve."

"Yeah."

"Did you go to church today?"

"No. I was training at the rink." He's looking at me again. "Are you married?"

The question catches me off guard. "I'm not supposed to tell you about the future, remember?"

"You tell me other things. You tell me that I'm going to be good at skating. You tell me to be nice to our neighbors because they'll help get Susan a job later. Why can't you tell me if I'm going to get married?"

There's something like desperation in his voice, and suddenly I remember. 1970. It hadn't been an easy year. My skating didn't seem to be getting any better; mom and dad talked of sending me away to train with a better coach. I was bullied at school. And now, Halloween was coming up, and everyone was going to Halloween parties—except me. I didn't have any friends.

At twelve, I was old enough to understand that the man from the future was myself. Which means that I was alone, and I hated it. The loneliness still sits like a lump of lead in my chest.

"You'll find someone one day, Scottie," I tell him—tell myself. "I know you're hurting, but keep your chin up. It'll get better. You're going to be a great skater."

He says nothing for a moment, looking down at his feet. Then, "Do you go to church?"

"Sometimes," I lie. I haven't gone to church since I was fourteen years old.

"Why?" he asks. "Isn't skating more important?"

"You'll have to decide that for yourself."

"But you're me. You've already decided. Skating is more important than anything else in your life, isn't it?" He looks at me with frustration in his eyes.

I go for a diplomatic answer. "Skating is important, but so is the rest of your life."

"I don't have a life," he says. "I have skating."

I try to think of something to say—something comforting, some word of encouragement—but nothing comes to mind. I wonder how much longer until I can go back to my own time. We sit in silence, our backs against the willow tree, watching the branches swaying in the wind.

 

-

 

_Tuesday, June 5, 1970 (Scott is 11, and 17)_

 

Sometimes I wish I didn't have to go to school. But both my parents are teachers, so there's no way I can avoid it. That's what I remind myself when I'm facing a page of math homework that refuses to turn into something more understandable, no matter how long I glare at it.

I hear a noise behind me and turn around. It's Scott. I get up to greet him, already smiling. Then I notice that Scott's eyes are red, as if he's been crying, and his hair is a mess. Not that my hair isn't usually a mess, but this is bad, even for me. Something is wrong.

"When did you come from?" I ask instead.

"1975," he says. "December 1975."

I want to ask him what happened to him—to me—but before I get a chance, Scott walks over and grips me by my shoulders. He looks right into my eyes.

"Tell mom that you love her, okay?" he says. "Tell her everyday that you love her. Promise me you will."

Something in his voice makes my skin crawl. "Why? What happened? Did something happen to mom? Is something going to?"

"Just promise me!"

I take a step back, my hip bumps painfully against the desk, and suddenly he's gone. My heart is pounding. My mind racing.

"Scott?" A knock on the door. Mom peers into my room. "I heard noises. What's going on?"

"Nothing," I lie. I hesitate. I don't understand what just happened, but... "Hey, mom?"

"Yes?"

"I...love you."

She looks surprised, but smiles at me. "I love you, too, Scottie. Finish your homework, okay? We're having dinner soon."

"Okay."

She smiles again and closes the door behind her. I hear her footsteps on the stairs. The radio is on in the kitchen, the music riddled with faint static. I sit down at my desk, staring at my math homework, and suddenly feel cold.

 

-

 

_Thursday, November 7, 1967 (Scott is 9, and 23)_

 

The school looks haunted at night, but Scott is here, so I'm not scared. We got some clothes from the lost and found. I'm wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Nothing fit Scott, so he's just wearing a big jacket. I want to go to the playground outside, but Scott says it's too cold and my toes will freeze, so we explore the classrooms instead.

We go to Ms. Bean's classroom and I show him the drawing I made. We made drawings of our friends, and I made one with Scott. I wrote both our names in red, in my best handwriting. Ms. Bean really liked mine. She said it was very creative and put it up on the wall next to the chalkboard.

"I made a drawing of us," I tell him. There are two people in the picture, and I point to the taller one. "That's you. The other one is me. We're skating together. In the future." Scott said we would get to skate together one day. I hope it's one day soon.

"That's lovely," he says. He doesn't sound like he means it. "You want to go look at the other classrooms?"

I shake my head. I look at him for a moment. I can't tell how old he is. Scott says we can't turn the lights on in case somebody passes by the school. There's some light from the moon, but it's dark in the classroom. "How old are you?" I ask him.

"I'm twenty-three."

"Have we met yet?"

"I— Sorry?"

"Have we met yet?" I repeat. "You know. In the future?"

Scott looks at me. I look back at him. Then he says, "I want to show you something, Scottie." He sits down in one of the chairs and tells me to sit at the desk next to him. He points to his right foot. "I have a birthmark on my ankle. Can you see it?"

I squint and lean closer. I can sort of see it. "I have a birthmark like that, too!" I show him my foot. "It looks like a car if you turn it that way."

"I know," Scott says. He sounds sad for some reason. "Scott, look at me for a sec. Don't I look familiar to you?"

I look at him. He sort of does. "You have a big forehead," I tell him. "Like me."

"That's right," he says. "And I have blue eyes, like you. I have brown hair and a wide nose and funny ears, just like you. We have the same laugh and the same birthmark." He smiles, but it's a strange crooked kind of smile. "And we can both time travel."

I nod, slowly. "You're exactly like me." But I already know that. We're such good friends because we have everything in common. It's almost like he's my twin, except he's older, and he's from the future. He's like me from the future.

"...Oh." The realization hits me, hard. "Oh." My head is spinning. For a second I think I'm traveling again, except I'm not going anywhere. I'm sitting here, with Scott. Who is me. From the future.

"Don't cry, Scottie," he says. I didn't notice I was crying until he said that. I wipe at my eyes. I don't want to cry in front of him. In front of me. Him. It's confusing. "Don't cry. It's okay. I'm still here. I'm just not who you thought I was."

The tears are hot on my cheeks. I press my knuckles against my eyes and squeeze them shut. I can't stop crying. I feel a hand on my shoulder. My chest shakes. It feels like there are rocks tumbling around inside.

"Scottie? Are you okay?"

There's a lump in my throat that makes it hard to talk. I swallow and blink away the tears. "It's just..." My voice cracks. "I thought...I thought maybe..."

I thought maybe, one day, I would finally have a friend.

But Scott is me.

He pats my back and tells me it'll be okay, and I start crying all over again.

 

-

 

_Sunday, September 23, 1960 (Scott is 24, and 2)_

 

I'm sitting on a park bench, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible while wearing an oversized jacket and a pair of bright purple sweatpants that I stole from a clothesline down the street. I passed a diner earlier and stole a newspaper that someone had left at a table, which was how I discovered that it's 1960. And I know the neighborhood. So I tossed the newspaper away and headed for the park.

Mom used to take me and Susan out for walks on Sundays in this park. I've seen her. I've seen mom walking with dad, dad holding Susan by the hand and mom cradling a little baby in her arms.

Days like this, I sit on park benches and follow them with my eyes. They notice me, sometimes. Sometimes, I overhear mom talking, wondering about that strange man with the mismatched outfit. She wonders if he is homeless, whether he is insane. Who his parents are.

I wonder, too, sometimes. I wonder why I have never gone back to meet my biological parents. But perhaps it doesn't matter—because Dorothy Hamilton is my real mother, realer than anything biology could ever mean. I come back to her, time and again. I see her walking with me as a baby. I see her sending me to school; taking me to the doctor's; watching me skate, pride written in the lines of her face.

I wish she had lived to see all that I would eventually accomplish. The competitions, the audiences, the fame. The titles, the medals—all the things I won, for her. All the things that she'll never see.

All she sees is that young man on a park bench with the hungry, staring eyes. She sees him, day after day, never knowing that he is her son.

 

-

 

_Friday, February 25, 1976 (Scott is 17, and 17)_

 

It's Friday afternoon. Other kids my age are probably hanging out with their friends, school being over for the week and all. But not me. I'm in my room with my other self, keeping myself company, as always. He's from May, he told me, then clammed up when I tried to ask him what happens in the next few months. I just want to know how things are going to work out, whether I'll have to give up skating. Whether I'll have to go to college. Whether mom is going to be okay. Our financial situation hasn't been great, and neither has she. I just want to _know_ so I can stop worrying. But he won't tell me anything.

"What's going to happen is going to happen," he says, which I think is kind of a dickhead thing to say, especially to yourself. Then I remember that this is going to be me in a few months. I wonder why I'm such an ass.

"Isn't being a time traveler supposed to give me some kind of an advantage in life?" I ask him. "Help me manipulate the stock market? Let me know when disaster is going to strike? You're absolutely useless."

He shrugs. "Who said it was supposed to be a good thing?"

"Sci-fi movies always have time travelers go back and change things. I can't do anything."

"You don't have to tell me that. I know."

I cross my arms. "So you already know how the rest of this conversation goes."

"I remember most of it."

"And whatever I do has already happened, as far as you're concerned?"

"I guess."

I give that a moment to sink in. I take a deep breath. "Okay then," I say, and lean forward, and kiss myself on the lips.

He doesn't pull away, doesn't hit me or anything—then again, why would he? He's me—who happens to be a teenager, and very, very frustrated. I want this. Or something like this. I don't really know, honestly. I've never had a girlfriend, never had a crush, even. No one ever liked me in school, so I didn't waste my time with them. I had skating. I had my family. And I had myself. That's all I've ever known.

So kissing myself isn't really _that_ weird, if you think about it. It's like some really complicated form of masturbation. In the fourth dimension. Or something. Self-love. There's probably some psychological explanation for it.

My other self is kissing me back, very gently, and it takes me a moment to realize that he's pretty good at this. I wonder if he's done this more than once—if I'm going to do this again. Maybe. I mean, given the chance, wouldn't everyone?

He pushes me back until my knees hit the edge of my bed, and then I'm tumbling back, dragging him down with me. He has one hand up my shirt and his breath is hot against my ear.

"Hey," he says. I see his throat working, as if he's trying to say something, but no words come out. I pull him down and kiss him again. He feels so solid, so real. I've never hugged him before, I realize, heart suddenly pounding. It feels so good, being this close to someone. Even if it's just me.

"Hey, um," he says again. "Is the door locked?"

"There's no one home." Dad took mom to the hospital. Stevie is with his friends. I don't know where Susan is. "You should know that, since you're from the future."

"Well..." He gets that look again, like he wants to say something. But he doesn't. I decide it doesn't matter. I'm more interested in kissing him again anyway. And maybe finding out how to get those jeans off of him.

I'm sufficiently distracted that I don't hear the front door opening. I don't hear the footsteps until they're at the top of the stairs, less than five feet away from my door.

"Scott? Are you there?"

I freeze. Susan.

I've heard that moments like this, particularly traumatic moments, are supposed to happen in slow motion. But there's nothing slow about this. I hear a step outside the door. The doorknob _turns_. I flail, trying to untangle myself from—myself. It's no good.

The door opens, and Susan lets out a sound that's caught somewhere between a gasp and a shriek. I push my other self away and jump up, "It's not what it looks like!"—but she's already gone, half-running down the stairs and yelling something that sounds like, "Oh my god, sorry, sorry! Oh my god!"

I stand rooted to the spot, my face burning and my hands shaking. I clench them into fists.

"Do you think she saw?" I ask my other self. Susan doesn't know about the time traveling, though I've been trying to think of a way to break the news to her. This is a pretty shitty way for her to find out. "Did she see that you were—"

"No. She didn't."

So she just caught me—doing that. With another boy. "Shit." I rest my head against the doorframe. " _Shit_. Why didn't you tell me this was going to happen?"

"I tried to." He sounds tired. I can see him from the corner of my eye, sitting on the bed, rumpled and unhappy. "I did try to warn you."

"But you couldn't?"

"Because you can't change the past."

"Fuck that!" I want to scream at him. At myself. Someone, anyone. "What's the point of being able to time travel when all it does is fuck things up? _What's the point?_ "

"Maybe there is no point."

"Tell me what happens in May," I demand. I take him by the shoulders and shake him. "Are you still skating? Or are you in college? What about mom? Is mom okay?"

He pushes me away. "Mom is fine!" he yells back at me. He swallows. "For now, anyway. I don't know what's going to happen in the future."

I sink to the ground, defeated. I just want to curl up under the blankets and cry for days. I can't change the past, I know. But I always knew that. What hurts more is to realize that I can't change the future, either. That, one way or another, this is out of my hands. I bury my head in my arms, shoulders trembling.

"Hey," he says softly, "hey, you okay?"

"Can you go away?" My voice sounds muffled even to my own ears. "Please. Just go away."

He's quiet for a moment. "I can't control these things, you know," he says. I know. I've always known. I squeeze my eyes shut and count backwards from twenty.

When I look up again, he's gone.

 

-

 

_Thursday, May 26, 1976_

 

I linger in the doorway, my hands in my pockets, trying to gather the courage to take another step. Mom called me upstairs, saying she had something important to tell me, but didn't say what it was. She's been getting worse, lately, even though she puts on a brave face and tells me that she feels fine. I can tell that she isn't. I don't want to hear more bad news.

"Scott?" Her voice shakes me out of my reverie. "Why are you standing in the hallway, honey?"

I walk into her room, slowly. She's lying in bed, readng a newspaper. The lights are turned down low. She looks pale, her hair wisping all around her face.

"I was just," I fumble for a word, "...thinking."

"You're always doing that." She smiles, puts her newspaper aside and pats the bed. "Sit down. I have something exciting news for you."

Oh, thank god. The weight of a boulder seems to lift from my chest with those words, and I sink down on the edge of the bed, next to her.

"Good news for me specifically, or general good news that you want to tell me?"

"Good news for you, of course," she says. "I got a call earlier. Remember how we've been talking about looking for a sponsor for you?"

Mom sounds happy. I choose my words carefully. "Yeah, but I thought you said it hadn't gotten anywhere...?"

"Well, that's what we all thought. But, like I said, I got a call today. Helen and Frank McLoraine have offered to sponsor you so you can keep skating."

I stare at her. She's smiling at me, waiting for me to process what she just aid.

"So I don't have to go to college?" I say finally. She laughs, and I add, "I mean, not that I don't want to, but... I can keep skating? The money won't be a problem?"

Mom takes my hand and squeezes it, once. "Yes, Scottie. You're going to keep skating. More than that, though, you're going to be a champion." She's looking at me as if she can't stop, as if she needs to memorize all of me right here, right now. I squeeze her hand back and hold on tight. "We've found a new coach for you, too. How'd you like to work with Carlo Fassi?"

"Carlo _Fassi_?"

"The one and only."

"Oh my god," I breathe. "Oh my _god_."

Mom raps my wrist lightly with one knuckle. "Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Scottie."

"Sorry, sorry." I duck my head. "But... I can't believe this isn't all a dream. Just yesterday I was trying to figure out how I was going to cram for finals. I'm so behind on everything, I don't even know if I could..." I trail off. Mom laughs softly and pats my hand.

"You don't have to worry about it anymore. Just skate, and win. I always said you were going to be a champion, didn't I? And now you're going to prove me right."

"I'm going to prove it to the whole world," I promise her. "I'm going to win everything there is to win."

Mom smiles again, soft and slow and just a little bit sad.

"Come here," she says, opening her arms, and I bury my face against her shoulder, against her soft, wispy hair. "I'm so proud of you, Scottie," she whispers, "I'm so, so proud of you."

 

-

 

_Monday, November 17, 1984 / Thursday, November 17, 1977 (Scott is 25, and 19)_

 

It's pretty great to be me right now. I'm famous. I'm the best skater there is. I've won everything there is to win, and I plan to do even greater things now that I've turned pro. Ice Capades is nice, but I'm thinking of creating a new show. A different kind of show. A show that only Scott Hamilton could pull off.

I spend my time skating and planning, keeping busy. The days are getting shorter and shorter, darkness falling earlier with every sunset, and I try not to let it get to me. I'm in my room packing my bags for a weekend in New England when it happens. Nausea hits me like a sudden crash of thunder. My gut twists. I reach for the bench, my duffel bag, anything—but it's useless. I am gone.

It's always like this, the week before Thanksgiving. Nothing helps; nothing changes. The medals, the fame—none of it solves anything. It's been seven years, seven long years since my mother lost her battle with cancer, and I've lost count of how many times I've traveled back to this day, to this hospital in Ohio. No matter how far I go, I always come back. I turn up in abandoned rooms, in obscure corridors, in the tangled shrubs behind the parking lot. Sometimes I run from the nurses, the people coming and going; sometimes I sit and count the windows, the tiles, the seconds ticking away.

Often, I turn up in the empty rooms beside mother's. Like today. I hear a faint rustling as I arrive, and the first thing I see is a hospital gown crumpled in a pile on the floor. I look up to see an older Scott sitting on the bed, dressed in another one of those formless blue gowns.

"When are you from?" he asks.

"1984," I tell him.

He nods, looking tired. "The one that just left was twenty-two."

"Oh." I remember meeting him—myself—here, three years ago. We had talked for only a few minutes, then I was back in California, dry heaving over the shirt and tie I had been trying to match before I left.

"How long am I going to be here?" I ask my older self.

He reaches down and picks up the abandoned hospital gown, holds it out. "You'll need this," he says. Then, "1984, you said?"

"Yeah." I reach for the offered piece of clothing, already shivering. "So how long?"

His grin is crooked. "A while," he says, and suddenly I'm holding a blue hospital gown while another flutters to the floor at my feet. I curse and pull the gown over my head. I can hear the voices outside the door, but I can do nothing. I can only sit here, hidden, while my mother dies next door.

It's always the same. I listen to the doctor talking to my father in the hallway, Susan crying into her handkerchief, Stevie patting her shoulder, trying to comfort her. The frantic beeping of the machines. The nurses' running footsteps. The pandemonium. The voices. My father calling for me, shouting. Because I am not there.

My nineteen-year-old self is in another time, lost somewhere in a deserted parking lot, blind with tears and wanting nothing more than for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. Because his mother is dying, and he is not there. He would return after the noise had died down, and there was only silence.

I remember that I hardly spoke for days after. I made one phone call, to my coach. I told him to get ready, that I was coming back and he better be ready to work, because I planned to train, and I planned win. I didn't know what else to do, so I skated. I trained and trained and trained—and I won. I won everything there was to win.

But it didn't bring my mom back. It didn't change anything. Every year I still come back here. No matter how much I skate, how much I focus and try to stay grounded in the present, this day always pulls me back. The noise rings in my ears, and I sit and listen and wait to disappear, to return to the present, my face stained with tears and the taste of bile sharp and familiar on my tongue.

Sometimes I wonder what's the point of all this. What's the point, when I just keep going back? What's the point, when I am so close yet still light years away from what I really want—when I can never see my mother, never be with her, hold her hand and say to her, _I love you_ , one last time.

 

-

 

_Saturday, September 12, 1971 (Scott is 28, and 13)_

 

This is probably the longest I've ever time traveled, and I'm staring to get vaguely worried about what's happening back in my present time. Sometimes I go back and find that I've only been gone for a few minutes; other times, I return to find that a whole day has gone by, and I have about a million missed calls from people wondering where the hell I went. It has no bearing on how long I actually spent away; real time moves independently of me. I wonder which it will be this time.

I'm sitting under the willow tree with my thirteen-year-old self. I've been helping him with homework, and chatting about his skating. He just started working with Pierre, and Pierre is working him hard. I remember how it was.

"Do you still like skating?" he asks me suddenly.

I blink. "Of course I do. Why do you ask?"

"Oh. Just wondering." He doesn't look at me. "It's just, sometimes..."

I wait for him to gather his thoughts.

"Sometimes, I wonder if there are other things I should be doing, you know?" He scuffs his heel against the ground for a moment. "I spend so much time skating, and... It's hard sometimes. I fall down a lot and Pierre keeps saying my footwork needs to get better. It's hard."

"Yes, it is," I tell him. "But it'll be worth it, Scottie. You have to trust me. You're going to be great."

I've told him—myself—that countless times by now, but I keep doing it, because I have to keep going. Because I remember how hard it was—but I also remember how excited I had been the first time I skated a truly clean program, looked over and saw Pierre on his feet, applauding me. I remember that surge of elation, then. That sense of _knowing_ , somewhere in my bones, in my soul, that the world was about to change.

"I know I can do it," my thirteen-year-old self is saying quietly. "I just have to keep trying. Sometimes I want to give up. But I guess I have to keep going if I really want to win. I just have to find some motivation, somewhere."

I nod. "You'll find it." And if I don't tell him where the ultimate motivation would come from, the driving force that would carry him to such heights of fame that even the heavens seemed to be in reach (except they aren't, not quite, because what's gone is gone, forever)—well. He would find out for himself, in four years, during Christmas break, when all the world came crashing down under the weight of three little words: _Mom has cancer_.

He doesn't need to know yet, this bright-eyed, thirteen-year-old version of me. He can still train for the sake of training, skate for the sake of feeling the ice under his feet.

"You're going to be an amazing skater, Scott," I tell him, and he finally looks up, and smiles. I do my best to smile back.

 

-

 

_Wednesday, December 24, 1997 (Scott is 25, and 39)_

 

Traveling into the future isn't quite like traveling into the past. Everything feels strained, twisted, like an elastic band stretched to its limits, and I never stay long.

So when I land on a hardwood floor in a living room that I don't recognize, and the first thing I notice is the pounding headache behind my eyes, I know that this must be the future. And pretty far into the future, too, if the magnitude of my headache is any indication.

"Hello, there," says a voice. I turn my head, and it takes me a moment to gather my thoughts. Because the man standing there is short, balding—and unmistakably me.

"Um. Scott?"

"Who else?" He smiles. "You probably have a headache. Sit down. I'll bring you a blanket and some water."

I pull myself up and sit gingerly on the neatly upholstered sofa. I look around myself. It's a beautifully decorated living room. Everything matches, from the wood of the coffee table to the folds of the curtains. There's a Christmas tree in one corner.

Scott comes back with a glass of water and an old blanket that I vaguely recognize. I think Susan gave it to me, a couple of years back. I wrap it around myself and sip from the glass of water. It helps, a little bit.

"So," he says, taking the seat adjacent to me, "how old are you?"

"Twenty-five," I reply to the familiar question. "What year is this?"

"1997." He smiles at the faint shock on my face. "Farthest into the future you've ever traveled, huh?"

"Yeah, well. You would know." I glance at the Christmas tree again. "Holiday season?"

"Christmas eve."

I raise an eyebrow at that. "Spending Christmas by yourself? I didn't expect that from me."

"What you mean, I think," he says, smiling, "is that you didn't expect your future self to still be spending Christmas alone."

Well, yes. But that's beside the point. I search his face for a moment. He's balding, as I already noticed. I'd always known that I would probably bald early; my hair is already thinning. I had just never been confronted with evidence quite as concrete as this.

More than that, however, I notice the circles under his eyes. The slight downturn of his lips. The lines on his face that definitely aren't the result of laughter or crinkling eyes.

"Is everything all right?" I ask carefully.

He laughs at that. "Is anything ever all right for you?"

"That's not an answer."

"No." He's still smiling. "But you're going to live this for yourself one day. I don't want to spoil it for you. It's not all bad, trust me."

I nod. A wave of dizziness hits then, and I close my eyes. I don't think I'm going to be staying much longer. The headache is getting worse.

"Scott?"

"I'm fine," I manage. "Just...tell me something. Are you happy?"

There's a long pause, and I think maybe I've gone back without noticing it. I open my eyes, but no, Scott is still there. He's smiling a soft, secret sort of smile.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, I am."

His voice fades out almost before he's finished speaking. The Christmas tree disappears, the headache stays. Then I'm back in the present, dawn breaking through my bedroom windows as I blink owlishly at the clear morning light.

 

-

 

_Monday, June 23, 2008 / Friday, October 1, 1962 (Scott is 49, and 4)_

 

I've just turned off the lights and climbed into bed beside Tracie when it happens. A lurch, as if I've missed a step, and suddenly there is sunlight all around me. I swear under my breath and duck into the shelter of the willow tree.

Scott looks up. "Hello," he says.

"Er, hi." I watch him for a moment, trying to figure out how old he is. He looks about five, but he doesn't have a feeding tube yet, so probably four. He's not freaking out, so he must have met me a couple of times already. Which means there are probably clothes on the other side of the tree. "I'm, ah, going to get dressed. If you don't mind."

He nods and turns away, covering his eyes with his hands. "I won't look."

"Thanks." It's a bit comical, really, since we're both me. But I suppose my younger self doesn't know that yet. I find the plastic trash bag and get dressed quickly. "You can open your eyes now."

I sit on the ground next to him. He looks me up and down for a moment. Then, "How old are you?"

"I'm forty-nine," I say, and watch as his eyes widen slightly. I must seem ancient to him. "How old are you?"

"Four."

As I thought. "How's everything going?"

"I have to have this diet thing." He frowns. "I don't really know what it is, but mom says it's to make me feel better. I can't eat a lot of things now. The doctor says I can only eat some stuff. It's all weird and tastes gross."

I remember those years. I remember how the food tasted, and how none of it had helped. But telling him that won't do either of us any good, so I say instead, "It's what the doctor ordered. It's like medicine, you know? It tastes awful, but it's good for you. It makes you stronger."

"How are bad things good for you?"

"Life is weird like that." I'm flying by the seat of my pants, but at least it sounds good. I don't actually remember this conversation; all I remember is that Scott was a wise and mysterious man from the future who gave me some of the best advice of my entire life. Ironic, if you think about it. "Sometimes you have to go through bad things in order for things to get better. Does that make sense?"

"Not really."

"The diets are to help you, Scottie. Trust your mom, okay? She wants what's best for you."

This much, at least, he understands. He nods. "I know. Mom loves me."

"Yes, she does." I try to ignore the sudden tightness in my chest, the pang that's still there, even after all these years. "She loves you very, very much."

I rub at my eyes for a moment, trying to remember what else we talked about that day. When I look up again, I'm sitting in bed—my own bed—and Tracie is stirring.

"Scott?"

"Yeah, it's me." I spot my clothes at the foot of the bed, folded neatly in a pile. Tracie must have put them there while I was away. I pull on my pajamas. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Mmm. It's okay." She turns to face me, a slow, sleepy smile on her face. "When were you?"

"1962, I think." I climb into bed and lie down beside her. "I met myself in my old backyard in Ohio. I gave him some advice."

"You're good at that," she says, "giving advice."

I smile. "I hope so. They want me to write a book about it."

She smiles again, murmuring something that sounds like, "They'll love it." Her breathing evens out, and I watch her sleep for a while, thinking.

In my whole life, the best advice I ever got came from a strange man I met when I was four years old, a time traveler named Scott, who came and went without warning, and somehow became the greatest friend I have ever known. It's a little sad, in some ways; but it also makes sense.

I have my family. I have Susan. Tracie. My sons. They care for me and love me and need me, even, but it's not the same. Only I can truly understand and love myself, because no one can ever care as much for me as I do. In the end, I'm the only one who never abandoned me, was always there for me, always cared for me, and vice versa. It sounds cruel, perhaps, but it's just the truth—and I'm learning to live with it. Because, after all, if I can't live with myself, then who can?

 

-

 

_Wednesday, June 18, 2008_

 

I woke up this morning with a couplet stuck in my head. _Separate we come, and separate go. And this, be it known, is all that we know._ I woke Tracie up and asked her about it. She swatted me away and said it was too early for poetry. Then she told me to repeat it again. I did that. She was quiet for a moment, then told me that it was Conrad Aiken, part of his self-written epitaph. She asked me why I was thinking of such morbid things at six in the morning. I told her I don't know.

Now I'm brushing my teeth, listening to the faint sounds of Tracie puttering around in the kitchen, baby-talking at Maxx and trying to get Aidan to eat his breakfast. They're only about fifty feet away, down the hall, but still I feel alone. It's not a bad feeling. It's not the crippling loneliness that haunted all of my adolescence, nor the fearful self-awareness of my late twenties. It's just what it is: I'm here, by myself.

Conrad Aiken understood something of that, I suppose, drying off my face with a towel. But even Conrad Aiken can't fully understand, though his poetry comes close to the truth, as good poetry (I'm told) is supposed to do.

I check my reflection once more. I give myself a small, fleeting smile—and the man in the mirror smiles back. He always smiles back, even when no one else does. Because he is, after all, my best friend. Always has been. Always will be.


End file.
